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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086977">cold again by my own accord</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_skie_s/pseuds/blue_skie_s'>blue_skie_s</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>its warm when im cared for, for once [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Explosions, Gen, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Hatred, blood but it isn’t too detailed i dont think, he gets hurt, man he goes through it, you’ll see once you read</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:35:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_skie_s/pseuds/blue_skie_s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>…he really shouldn’t be here.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>its warm when im cared for, for once [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>413</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cold again by my own accord</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I WANTED TO GET THIS OUT MY APOLIGIES IF ITS A BIT SHORT AND NOT THE BEST BUT IF IT IS JUST TERRIBLE I’LL TRY AND MAKE UP FOR IT NEXT CHAPTER</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> There's only pitch black surrounding him, an endless void of nothing and nobody in sight. It’s eerily numbing, encasing his limbs and making moving feel like swimming through thick syrup. Again, there’s nobody else around him, nobody else hovering in the strange void he’s stuck in. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...An aching reminder of how he’s completely and utterly alone. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The nonexistent ground below him begins to abruptly crumble, and a flash of white blocks away his vision just as his body begins to slowly fall. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> …and then he blinks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And he’s standing in rubble, the syrup-y feeling gone and replaced with the suffocating scent of ash and smoke and the burning feeling of flames on his skin. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His head swerves, and he’s met with a memory of the duel from the revolution and shooting Tommy, stealing away his second life. He watches as Tommy collapses into the water, the blue of the river being stained with a diluted mahogany red. He whips his head around another time, phantom noises of shouting and manic snickering filling his ears. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And he’s met with another memory, this time of handing TNT to Wilbur. The crazed look on the ex-president’s face as he snatches the TNT. The betrayed look on Tommy’s face as he steps between the two. Talking. Laughing. Screaming. Silence. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> He turns again, only to be shown another memory. And another. And another. And </em> <b> <em>another</em> </b> <em> . </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Putting up the obsidian wall. Exiling Tommy. The Final Control Room. Blowing up L’manburg after Tubbo was elected. Forcing Tommy to give up his armor during exile. Arguing with Sapnap and George. Killing Tommy. Arguing with Fundy. Paying for Pandora’s Vault to be built by Sam. All of these terrible, awful things that </em> <b> <em>he’s said and done.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p><em> what the fuck is wrong with you what the fuck is wrong with you what the fuck is </em> <b> <em>wrong with you—</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Some things are shown to him that he’s forgotten over the years and even months or weeks. Thoughts and ideas of his doing are displayed from during the wars and the fights and the petty things he’s boasted of and the evil things he’s yelled. Destruction he’s done to homes and villages and so many other buildings and areas and objects around the server. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His doing his doing his doing hisdoinghisdoinghisdOING— </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> The sounds of explosions and shouting and fighting and swords clashing and bows being fired and fireworks and insane cackling and </em> <b> <em>everything fills his head</em> </b> <em> . It sends shockwaves of pain through him, tears pricking at his eyes as the shadows around him fill with pairs of glowing pupils watching him from everywhere.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hands reach out, and he stumbles, collapsing to his knees and hugging himself tightly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Once again, a flash of white sheets his vision and blocks away the view of the rubble. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He sobs. </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Dream jolts awake, snapping his eyelids open and glancing around. The living room is darkened, coated in a coat of midnight purple and sending shadows across the whole room, furniture and all. The pure black spanning across the walls is scarily close to the one in his… nightmare?<em> Is it even that…? </em> He cringes, scanning over the bookshelves and the coffee table, the paintings and pictures, the candles and other random shit on the table, the burnt out fireplace, the flower vase on the mantle… it’s all dark.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, not as dark as the <strike> memory dump </strike> nightmare he’d had, but still…</p><p> </p><p>He thinks back to his nightmare. It… it wasn’t very pleasant, but…</p><p> </p><p> <em> Does he really deserve to be sitting here? </em></p><p> </p><p>The arm wrapped around his shoulder loosens just slightly, and he jumps again just like he did when he woke, looking back at it and the wing curling around his body. <em> Oh. Right. He’s in Phil’s home. </em> Dream inhales shakily.</p><p> </p><p>...<em> he’s in Phil’s home… </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Flashes of the 16th swim through his mind, memories of Wilbur pressing the button because of their deal and everyone screaming in horror as L’manburg’s blown to the skies. Flashes of Phil impaling a sword through Wilbur’s chest, sobbing and sending cries up to the heavens. Flashes of him fighting against Techno, going against his son. Flashes of Tommy’s faces of horror as his family falls apart. Flashes of events that were caused by his own wrongdoing. By his own manipulation. By his own reign of power. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...he failed everyone… </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He shouldn’t be here— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He reaches a quivering hand up to push away Phil’s arm from his shoulders. Philza shifts as it gets rested on the back of the couch, and Dream goes rigid, desperately trying to keep his rushed breathing quiet as he scoots off of the couch. He pauses for a moment before pushing himself up on shaky legs, holding the couch to gain balance. His legs were still wobbly from whatever he “dreamt” about, and his body was sore from passing out on a couch. He was also cold from passing out without a blanket in the middle of winter.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here in the home of a man who he’s hurt. Who’s sons he’s hurt. Dream shouldn’t be standing in this room so comfortable right now. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve comfort. He doesn’t deserve this he doesn’tdeservethiS— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He can practically feel the weight of how much he’s done settle on his shoulder blades as he stands.</p><p> </p><p>…he really shouldn’t be here.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He wishes Phil didn’t find him in the snow three days ago. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sure, it had been nice here the whole time, every second was incredible and calm, but he didn’t deserve that luxury at all. He should’ve realized that on day one. Dream really should have realized that on day one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>As he moves forward, he knocks into the table, and the figure of a candle falls to the carpet floor, emitting a shattering noise. He curses quietly as tears prick at his eyes, and he hears slight shuffling coming from Phil, and his breathing only becomes more shallow as he blindly stumbles away from the couch towards the kitchen, ignoring the spikes of pain being sent through his sock-covered feet. <em> He doesn’t deserve to BE HERE AT ALL— </em></p><p> </p><p>More shuffling comes from the couch, and he slips slightly on the hardwood floors as he moves backwards.</p><p> </p><p>“...Dream?” a groggy and tired voice calls.</p><p> </p><p>He breaks.</p><p> </p><p>Dream scrambles away, leaving no time for himself to rethink a single thing, the held-back tears now flowing freely down his freckled face as he makes a desperate, albeit clumsy, sprint for the door. A panicked and confused shout sounds from behind him, and he hiccups, tugging at the doorknob with uncoordinated movements. His vision is blurred as he throws the door open, wiping a sleeve at his eyes and tripping down the stairs of the small porch. The sky is still pitch black and speckled with glowing stars that are spread like freckles as he runs from Phil’s large cabin, crashing into branches and trees and probably every other possible thing to slow him down in the dead of night with freezing temperatures surrounding him in the middle of a forest.</p><p> </p><p>The moon peeks out from behind clouds like a small child, and it beams light strings down onto him as he moves, which the trees block out the rays every so often as he passes underneath. The sky drops down snow, and stars twinkle and flicker overhead, quite opposite to Dream’s current predicament currently. Leaves rustle as he rushes past them, the branches shuddering behind him as he goes onward.</p><p> </p><p>Snow crunches under his feet and falls atop his head as his heart practically pounds out of his chest, and the groans of zombies, the rattle of skeleton bones, the crawling of spiders and hissing of creepers and the threat of dying hang heavy in the air. It’s easily ignored by him, though, as the crunching footsteps behind him rapidly fade into the background and the cold nips at his covered arms and bare face. </p><p> </p><p>He ignores everything else around him as thoughts swirl like a wildfire inside of his mind, urging him onward into the night. A small, miniature part of him shouts to go back to Phil and sleep and curl into the warmth again, but the much louder part, and, in his opinion, the more knowledgeable part, screams of the things he’s been the cause of and <em> every single reason </em>why he really shouldn’t have a single, miniscule bit of access to comfort.</p><p> </p><p>(<em> Distantly, he thinks he wants to go back to the better days of the SMP) </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Dream slows in a large clearing.</p><p> </p><p>It’s completely coated in snow like the rest of the forest, the only difference being a larger amount of it. He does soon register the cold that will <em> probably </em> give him some bad frostbite, but who is he to care? The stinging of scratches and bruises and the finally-noticed glass digging into his feet shoot through his body, and he winces, shivering and swaying ever-so-slightly. With the illumination of the pale moonlight, now that he’s looking at it, he can see the faintest hint of bloody footprints, and the red staining the snow below him.</p><p> </p><p>...He’s not sure whether he should do something about it.</p><p> </p><p>His green sweatshirt is ripped up and beginning to stain with more small blotches of red blood alongside the ones from clawing at his arms before, and the liquid is dripping from his cheeks onto the snow and bleeding into the previously pure sparkling frozen water crystals packed together. The glass shards push deeper into his feet as he continues standing, and his socks are soaked in the cold, unforgiving snow layering the ground and falling atop his head (<em> and more blood, but he refuses to acknowledge that right now. It isn’t of any use. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He deserves this. He deserves this pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He deserves this suffering. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He deserves to suffer like he’s caused others to do.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His mind supplies him with harsh whispers and mumbles of self-hatred that cling to him like leeches searching for nutrients, sending a new wave of tears pricking at his already bloodshot eyes. Although he knows the things it murmurs are true, it still claws and tears at his cracked and shattered heart.</p><p> </p><p>The surrounding trees tower over him and cast shadows across the white and crimson-stained ground, and the stars sneer at his small, pathetic,<em> useless </em> existence. The unseen mobs almost seem like they’re laughing at him, shaming him for being so utterly stupid and <b> <em>alone</em> </b>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s thinking of snowy days outside with his friends. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sapnap and George throw snowballs into each other's faces, and Tommy and Tubbo shoving each other back and forth until they fall in the snow in a bundle of pure joy and loud, pretend arguments and giggling. Wilbur strumming his guitar by a lit fire, and Bad holding mugs of scalding hot cocoa out for everybody to let cool and sip as they chatter and laugh. Fundy and Eret elbowing each other and joking around, and everyone joining the train of calling Fundy a furry eventually. Dream sat down by the fire, telling stories of manhunts and experiences with the other three Muffinteers. They’d be shouting in protest at him talking of mistakes and stupid actions and overexagerrated events, but in the end, they’d all be laughing. Happy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...happy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They’d be happier without him. </p><p> </p><p>No, they <em> are </em> happier without him.</p><p> </p><p>A happy family.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>…</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>A hissing noise brings him away from the slightly more pleasant but also bitter, make-believe moment, and back to reality. With a delayed adjustment of his head, bringing it upward, he sees a glimpse of a creeper in front of his face before being blown backwards, an unwelcome scream ripping itself from his throat as his back slams into the ground and his body rolls. A shrill ringing in his ears is the start of a pounding headache, and the cold quickly seeps into his already faintly soaked-from-snow sweatshirt once again. His vision is blurry and warped as he squints open his eyes (<em> when did he close them?) </em>, and he can barely move any of his limbs due to a searing pain filtering through his muscles and bones.</p><p> </p><p>It hurts <em> so much </em> to breathe, but he’s still breathing as confirmed by the bolts of agony shooting through his organs and the rapid rising and falling of his chest and body and <em> everything hurts so fucking much- </em></p><p> </p><p><em>He remembers the feeling of explosions going off and clawing through his armor as he stands. He remembers the many times he narrowly avoided getting even partially injured by a creeper. He remembers the booming and roaring of TNT that sent shockwaves and tremors right through the ground, powerful enough to cause a major earthquake, but what it truly achieves is creating a large crater in a main portion of </em><strike><em>his</em></strike> <em>the server.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He remembers Tommy standing still as a creeper advances on him, too.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dream clenches his teeth as the very muffled sound of a multitude of zombies reaches his ears through the ringing, and he pushes himself up with one of his trembling arms. </p><p> </p><p>The one that he finds the pain bearable in, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He whines quietly, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and disperse the blurred vision and the mixing colors and details of the woods and the meshed together visuals.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t go away. </p><p> </p><p>It simply lingers, never faltering once as he blinks faster in a panic, trying, trying, <em> trying </em> to clear his vision and <em> see </em>. The blurriness only clings and sticks, and he thinks he cries out. He isn’t sure though, his ears are barely working correctly right now.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t want to admit that his vision isn’t gonna be the same ever again, and it’s probable that nor will his hearing. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t want to acknowledge that his primary senses are now damaged beyond repair. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t want to admit it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...just like his actions— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> . </em>
</p><p>
  <em> . </em>
</p><p>
  <em> . </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> he’s weak. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> weakweakweakWEAKWEAK- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One of his legs is pressed into the ground, and he attempts to stand, but falls right back over, flopping back down face-first into the snow. He weakly coughs, choking on a painful sob, which only brings on more and more until he can’t stop it anymore. The full moon is right above him, shining down on him with light undeserved by his monstrous being. Clouds block a majority of the bright stars, and he can feel snow just beginning to pile atop his back.</p><p> </p><p>Dream pushes a shaking arm under his chin and looks blankly up towards the blurred sky, just barely clenching his fingers around a handful of snow. He doesn’t know when he started closing his eyes, but soon his vision is blackening, and his body’s going numb from what he’d only partially sure is the cold. He’s not sure, though. Dream can’t even think straight anymore.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> ...’m sorry…” </em> he mumbles to himself, but it’s so very clear that it’s directed at everyone he knows, as the ringing dissipates and leaves behind a background static noise, leaving one of his eardrums sounding like it’s underwater and the other open to the noises of the woods. Owls call out and he, for some odd reason, cannot hear anymore mobs around him as he lays limply. His breath clouds in front of his face, but he, again, can’t find it in him to care, as his mind blanks and his eyelids droop closed, leaving him floating in the void of his head.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>haha creeper go boom<br/>thanks for reading! i’ll be working on the next part soon, and, possibly before that, i’ll write something based on the album “From Rotting Fantasylands” by nero’s day at disneyland! it would be fully based on the tones of the songs. </p><p>it would be hard, and take a while to plan out what would happen in it, but i might just try and attempt it.</p><p>ALSO, HOLY SHIT, THANKS FOR 3000+ HITS ON “It’s Cold Being Alone”! ITS VERY APPRECIATED!!!</p><p>goodbye for now!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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